


trapped in the maw of a wolf

by abaward



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Bondage, Breeding, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Humiliation, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mild Blood, Praise Kink, Size Difference, Spanking, Stockholm Syndrome, Threats, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25863619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abaward/pseuds/abaward
Summary: Wrathion is captured on Draenor and brought before the High King of the Alliance. Varian misreads his attempt at negotiations as a sexual overture and decides to exact a punishment.
Relationships: Wrathion/Anduin Wrynn implied, Wrathion/Varian Wrynn
Comments: 10
Kudos: 29





	trapped in the maw of a wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Very dubious consent here. Please be warned. Consent is given, albeit under duress and in very dubious circumstances. If this upsets you, please don't read. Heed the tags.

Varian Wrynn swept aside the pile of letters that had accumulated on his desk when he heard the knock at the door. He rose, tied the belt of his blue silk robe snugly around his waist, and crossed the room at a stroll. On the other side of the threshold, somebody shifted. Plates scratched together, and a man with a low voice cleared his throat. Chains jangled, then stilled.

Squaring his shoulders, Varian reached for the handle and turned it, letting light from his personal chamber spill upon the party gathered in the hall.

There had to be seven soldiers waiting. Each wore identical blue-and-silver chest plates and a set of solemn frowns. But it wasn't the retinue of guards that attracted Varian's attention. Instead, it was the smallest figure among them, barely five foot in height, with a white turban perched upon his dark head. What the boy lacked in stature, he made up for in confidence: shoulders rigid, lips drawn in an unreadable line, and red eyes burning as they assessed Varian from head to toe. 

For a moment, the king felt like he was the one being detained. He straightened his back, then pulled on the ends of his sash to tighten the knot around his waist. Bristling, he turned his gaze to the faces of his men and muttered, "You found him."

A Gilnean named Bentley, a red-haired man with the stresses of the Cataclysm still etched upon his face, was the first to respond: "Aye. We caught him walking the road to Axefall. Ready to offer his services to the Horde, no doubt, the little traitor."

"I see," Varian glanced down at him once more. To his surprise, the boy had already opened his mouth to reply. His chains rattled in front of him as he tilted his goateed chin to meet the king's stare. A smile twitched at the corners of his lips. 

He answered with a certain musical lilt to his voice, "Services? No, services were far from my mind, your Majesty, I assure you. I was merely in search of a meal, and from the overpowering scent of meat wafting through the valley, I assumed the Horde had more than they could hope to consume alone. I intended to request an audience with their Garrison Commander. Nothing more, nothing less." 

"I see," Varian repeated, this time with a tighter jaw. The dragon's speech sounded practiced, as if he had mulled it over for the entire five-hour trek between Arak and Shadowmoon Valley. The insincerity of it sparked a flame in the pit of the human king's chest. His eyes narrowed and his upper lip curled into a sneer. "And I assume you were 'merely in search of a meal' when you decimated our outpost at Southport."

"When I turned myself in, you mean?" Wrathion corrected him, with all the ease of someone stating whether the previous day had been cool or warm. He gave his right hand a quick wave. The chains dangling between his legs quivered, but he moved as if they weren't there at all. "Yes, partially, or at least, that was my hope."

"To destroy our fort?" One of the soldiers in the back cut in. 

Wrathion shook his head. His expression remained unchanged. "To eat. Or, rather, to see myself returned safely to Stormwind. The late Kairozdormu had no idea what he was doing when he opened this portal. I was wrong to believe for a second in the madness of the bronze flight, but I was impetuous, and desperate. I'm sure you gentlemen cannot fault me for that, having all been young and impressionable once."

The words he spoke were humble ones, but the _way_ he said them set the king's nerves on edge. They danced off the tip of his tongue like water from a fountain, and neither his lips nor his eyes reacted to their weight. When he finished, he gazed up at Varian and shrugged. He looked unmoved and unchanged, no different from the boy he had caught slipping out of his son's tent that final morning at the Temple of the White Tiger. 

Varian's teeth gritted as he was sucked back to that moment. Incredulous, confused, and enraged, it took everything in him not to lunge forward and pin the Black Prince to the wall. If his soldiers weren't in his way, he might not have been able to stop himself. 

For now, he settled on narrowing his eyes and pouring his anger into his stare. "Save it for the tribunal. I don't intend to decide anything tonight. I want to know what you did to Admiral Taylor's garrison and how you slipped away. The Alliance can't run the risk of you pulling the same trick twice. Be honest, and I'll keep you out of the stocks, but if I suspect you are lying—"

"I have no intention of lying. However, given the nature of things, your Majesty may want to consider—"

"I know your kind loves to part with the truth," Varian jumped back in. The dragon's high voice succumbed to the king's rumble. "But self-preservation is something I'm sure you understand. Now, tell me, why did you destroy our garrison and how did you kill the admiral?"

"As I was trying to say, it is a complicated subject, and one I fear you don't want revealed in front of your guard, no matter how trustworthy and loyal they may be." The dragon looked to his left, then to his right. He nodded to the soldiers, but they kept their eyes fixed on the king. Noticing this made Varian's chest swell, and he dug his heels into the floor. 

Wrathion, however, went on as if his praises had been met with gratitude and his evasiveness had been joyfully received. Another wave of annoyance swept away Varian's momentary flash of pride.

"My request is this," the dragon smiled. "Supper, and a private meeting with your Majesty, wherein I can explain in full what occurred in Arak and set all of your fears and questions about me to rest. I do not ask for much, only an hour or two of your time before I am tossed in a cell in the bowels of your fortress. Surely you can permit me that."

"I've already eaten," Varian pointed out, neither accepting nor denying the request.

"Then I will eat, and you can listen," Wrathion concluded. "You owe me that much, at least, after your men interrupted what promised to be an excellent meal."

Varian could have argued with the little dragon, could have pointed out that the Alliance owed him nothing, and that, had he approached the Horde encampment he would have likely been divested of his head. He should have been grateful the Alliance chose to take him alive; he was in no position to be making demands.

But there was always a finality in Wrathion's voice that made him difficult to object to, even for the High King of the Alliance. It disturbed Varian; it made him wonder how swiftly his son had been swept under this dragon boy's thumb. He furrowed his brow and curled his fingers into his palm, tight enough to draw out the tendons of his wrist. Looking over the prince's turbaned head, he addressed his guards with what he hoped was a re-assertion of his authority:

"Leave the dragon with me. He and I will talk, and if he behaves, you can send him to his cell with a bowl of stew. If he doesn't, I will have you take him to the stocks. Understood?"

"Yes, your Majesty!" Wrathion quipped above the murmur of human voices. Varian did his best to ignore him, taking a step backwards into his chamber and then turning to revisit the carved oak chair behind his desk.

The guards must have nudged Wrathion forward because Varian heard his chains rattle erratically before settling into an evener shuffle and clang. He paid him no heed until he was fully seated with his arms crossed over his chest. Wrathion stood in the middle of the room and bounced once or twice on his heels. He glanced from one corner to the next, a silent request for a seat forming on his parted lips. Varian pretended he didn't notice. Picking up one of his letters, he read the name scrawled across the parchment, "General Tally of the Fourth Brigade," before setting it off to the side. He picked up another, then another. 

Finally, Wrathion spoke. "So, how is Anduin?"

Varian's thumbs froze on either side of the paper he clutched in his hands. "Excuse me?" 

"I assume you forced him to return to Stormwind, and I can't help but worry for him. He really loved Pandaria, you see. He told me so all the time," Wrathion's voice rose. Though he had been scanning the room moments before, now his fiery gaze settled upon the human king's face. "More and more I find my thoughts returning to him. Is he happy? Is he safe? Has he given himself to despair? I would be devastated to see it."

Another memory flashed through the High King's mind: father and son seated in the captain's quarters of the airship, Anduin's breath hitching and his lower lip trembling. Varian stealing looks across the table at Jaina, glances confirming both knew what was wrong but neither dared confront the prince with their knowledge.

Anduin had looked so broken that day, like a candle extinguished before it could burn to the base. For all the king's best efforts, he hadn't protected his son from heartbreak, but now he had the object of that pain shifting and squirming in front of him, acting as if _Varian_ were the one who made Anduin suffer. He shot back, with a cold finality, "It doesn't matter to you. You'll never see my son again."

"But I am still allowed to worry for him, am I not?" Wrathion replied. A slight drop in his tone betrayed a momentary slip in his confidence, but then his voice rose once again, and he waved a manacled hand. "I care for him deeply. I always will."

"Really? The last time I checked, knocking someone out isn't a gesture of love, even for your miserable kind."

"Neither is breaking their arm, last time I checked, and yet here we are arguing about which of us loves Anduin more." 

Varian bit down on his bottom teeth. The fire in his chest spread to his face, leaving him hot and ready to snap. How freely had Anduin spoken about him to this dragon, and what nerve did Wrathion have to compare his treatment of Anduin to Varian's own, based on a single, ill-fated encounter between a troubled king and his son? 

Sitting up in his chair and uncrossing his arms to grip the handles at his sides, he regarded Wrathion with the keen-eyed stare of a wolf. Rather than balking or straightening his stance, however, the dragon remained at ease. 

Again, the king's stomach roiled. "Enough about my son," he forced out between gritted teeth. "As I said, you will be brought before a tribunal in Stormwind to answer for your crimes, though at the rate you're going you'll be lucky to make it back."

He hoped his words would elicit a genuine response. They didn't. Wrathion opened his mouth—likely ready with another quip or practiced speech. This time, Varian didn't let him get it out.

"You are here to explain to me what happened at Admiral Taylor's garrison. I'll give you forty minutes, and then I'm calling for the guard. I suggest you stop wasting time with questions and get to what you wanted to say." To emphasize his point, Varian reached out and tapped the gold clock on the corner of his desk.

The dragon followed his hand with his gaze, and then straightened. His turban bobbed on his head as he nodded and exclaimed, "Yes, right! Where was I?"

"Admiral Taylor's garrison," Varian supplied.

"The garrison, yes. As I said, I arrived one morning after I ran into trouble with the ogres. I presented myself, arms outstretched," the dragon held out his wrists to emphasize his point. The chain pulled taut between his manacles. "I was ready and willing to be taken into Alliance custody."

Varian withdrew his hand from the clock and folded it with the other on the desk directly in front of him. He listened as Wrathion explained the hostility he had experienced from Lady Claudia and her troops, and how he had attempted to curry favor by using his resources to build the soldiers a tavern. Failing to see what any of this had to do with Taylor's untimely death, Varian let his gaze (and his thoughts) wander from the tip of the boy's pointed boots to the gold trimmed end of his turban swaying about his ear every time he moved.

Despite his bravado and the pompous purples and reds of his attire, the lines of his waist and chest beneath betrayed how small and young he was. Delicate...and weak. Anduin had told him once the boy's natural form was little bigger than a house cat; the king wondered if that still held true. He imagined him scurrying across the floor, heaving and desperate to avoid the jaws of a wolf hot in pursuit. The thought made the corners of the king's mouth twitch. 

In front of him, Wrathion paused, and then asked, with uncertainty ebbing at the edges of his voice, "Is something funny, your Majesty?"

The sound dragged the king back to the moment. He shifted, then pulled in his seat, not stopping until the edge of the desk pressed against his lower abdomen. He tried to recall the last thing he had heard Wrathion say, but the words slipped through the cracks in his mind. Forcing his lips to straighten and his features to harden, he replied, with what he hoped was enough authority to make up for his shameful confession. "I didn't hear the last part. Go back. What were you saying about the Ring of Blood?"

"I can speak up if you need, your Majesty," Wrathion offered. His tone was sweet, but the words he uttered rang in the High King's ears. It took everything in him not to spring forward and snarl. 

"Or, if you'd like, I can simply take a step closer."

The king opened his mouth to dismiss the offer, but something in Wrathion's stare gave him pause. There was a glint that hadn't been there before: a smugness, and a curiosity that sent a jolt through Varian's body. When he finally parted his lips, no sound came from his throat. Instead, he halted everything from the tapping of his fingers to the in-and-out of his breath. Even his heart seemed to stop.

He swallowed. Wrathion took a step closer. The longer the dragon grinned, the more convinced Varian became of the nuance he had sensed in the seemingly innocent offer.

The blood drained from Varian's cheeks, and in its place came violent repugnance. Had the dragon taken his musings for, what? For lust? Had he caught something in the king's eye to make him smirk with such self-assurance, as if he had snatched the upper hand with his bound wrists? 

Varian bit back a sputter. His spine went rigid, and the bangs on either side of his face quivered with the force of his declaration. "We are done here," he glowered, as thoughts of Wrathion smirking at his son with the same intensity burned in his mind. "I've heard enough. Go to the door and call the guard. Tell him you'll go without supper. If you even think of running or lying, I'll snap your back in two. Do I make myself clear?"

For once, the dragon didn't have a ready response. His jaw slackened, wiping the horrible smirk from his lips. His crimson eyes all but consumed his face. He let out an incoherent sound and then spun on his heels, his chains clinking and swaying with every scrambling step.

Exhaling, Varian murmured in triumph. He unfolded his hands, flexed his fingers, and watched as the guard returned to collect Wrathion from the room's threshold. It was only after the tink of his shackles disappeared down the hall that he let his mind return to where he had left it: to a black dragon, small and powerless, trapped in a wolf's massive maw.

o o o

They locked Wrathion away without supper. Curled up in the corner of a cell that reeked of both mold and new paint, the dragon bowed his head and listened to the growl of his belly. They had stripped him of his turban and had clamped a collar around his slender neck. It wasn't made from the same smooth iron as his manacles, but something heavier and rougher, from an Orcish forge, perhaps. It drained him from the tips of his fingers to the pit of his chest, leaving him weary, limp, and wondering if this was how it felt to be mortal.

It dug into his jaw when he tried to lay down and burdened his shoulders when he tried to sit up. Hollow and sore, he watched the three stripes of moonlight on the floor grow thin, then yield to lavenders and blues signaling the dawn. 

They brought him breakfast sometime past mid-morning. A slat at the base of the door opened, and a pale hand pushed through a tray bearing a plain mug and bowl. Crawling across the ground, Wrathion discovered the bowl contained thick, gray sludge that made his hunger suddenly preferable. The cup held barely enough water to wash down the tasteless porridge. 

Even so, he forced it in, willing his throat to relax and accept the slimy intrusion. He shoved his empty dishes against the door, hoping the clank of chains and ceramics might rouse a guard he could ask for a second drink. Despite the din, no one came. He rose, readjusted his clothing as well as he could with his wrists restrained, and dug his heels into the floor.

Though an ache built and spread from the nape of his neck to the tops of his arms, he squared his shoulders, tilted his chin, and waited. After an indeterminate period, a guard with bulging eyes opened the cell and peered in, rumbling, "The king wishes to speak with you."

"Excellent," Wrathion replied, as if he'd been asked to tea. "I won't keep him waiting." He took a step forward, stretching out his hands and summoning what he hoped was a charming smile. 

The guard walked into the cell and grunted, then grabbed Wrathion by the elbow and tugged him over the threshold. He hadn't even put up a fight, he wanted to protest as pain shot to the tips of his fingers. One glance in the glowering guard's direction confirmed he was better off keeping his peace.

He swallowed and wrinkled his nose at the hint of porridge still lingering on his tongue, but he kept his red eyes forward, and his jaw squared over the jagged edge of the collar. They walked down a hall, then up a winding staircase Wrathion recognized from the night before. Bumpy cobblestone gave way to wood as they stepped onto the landing, then wood to woven rugs as they turned into the corridor Wrathion knew led to Varian's room. 

Today, light streamed through a row of windows on his left, warming the dragon's chapped lips. He pursed them, then rolled his shoulders. His bound hands laced together in the space before his thighs. Something about the brightness of the hall made breathing easier. It assured him whatever waited for him in Varian's office would turn out to be in his favor.

With that confidence, he brought his heart rate to steady. Taking the last few steps with his typical gait, he turned on his heels, unprompted, and lingered at the king's door as the guard rapped his knuckles against the frame.

"Send him in," Varian called from beyond. Even the eager edge in his voice did not deter the prince. 

The guard nodded, then pushed open the door. Wrathion turned to the side and brushed past him, then made room for him to stand next to him in the entryway. The plump man, however, never joined him. The door clicked closed, and a pang of concern flicked at the dragon's heart. He managed to dismiss it before his pulse shot up, but not without a few hasty reminders to himself that privacy might work in his favor. 

With his lips now pressed together, he turned his eyes upon the desk where Varian had sat yesterday. The chair was empty. The king was waiting, instead, in the adjacent chamber, one heel propped up on the opposite knee and bare hands grasping either side of his mattress. 

Wrathion's brow rose. He took a few steps closer but didn't dare cross over without the king's permission. Threats from before, the way Varian had snarled and snapped without warning, and the questions he had harbored as the guards hurried him from the room began to resurface. Being back in this same chamber made it feel as if it had happened moments before. 

It took at least two exhales and a swallow before Wrathion trusted his voice not to break. 

"Your Majesty?" He questioned from his place in the doorway. "My apologies if I caught you off guard. If you need a moment to ready yourself, I will be waiting out here by your desk. Please, take your time if you need—"

He hadn't finished pronouncing the final sound before Varian cut in. "No. I'll speak to you here." The low rumble of his voice overpowered Wrathion's lighter murmur. 

"All right, then," Wrathion chirped, a bit too loudly. Part of him knew this wasn't a normal request, but he bounced on his heels and acted as if it were. Crossing the threshold in a single stride, he came to stand before Varian and summoned a smile that ached at the corner of his mouth. The king watched him with a slight curl to his upper lip.

Another pang gripped Wrathion's heart, but he stared at Varian with the assurance he had perfected as a child staring at the rogues, crooks, and murderers who paced the halls of Ravenholdt. 

Something flashed in Varian's blue-green eyes. Wrathion's fingers, once woven easily together, now dug into the back of his hands. His chains tinked, rattled by a single tremor he hadn't managed to quell before it raced up his legs. It was only then that the king smiled, and leaned back, exposing the drawstrings of his linen pants. 

"Given how haughty you acted last night, I've decided you might not appreciate the _seriousness_ of your situation." 

Anduin had once told Wrathion that his father, when provoked, could make every nerve in his body writhe with fear. At the time, he had chalked it up to the blond prince's softness, but he now realized that Anduin had faced the Dark Iron, Garrosh, and Wrathion's aunt herself and thus had grounds to make the comparison. If he had listened, it might have prepared him for the squirming that started in his low back and crawled like a worm to his scalp. 

Swallowing proved difficult. Wrathion's breath hitched when he tried to speak, and even the jangle of his chains as he waved a manacled hand couldn't mask it. "I'm sorry if I came off as brash. I've spent the last two years speaking to orcs, you see, and it's possible it has gone to my head. What if we start again? We can step back into your office and I can explain my story from beginning to end. Would that please you, your Majesty?"

The king uncrossed his legs and rose. The mattress squealed, its surface evening to account for the sudden loss of weight. "No." Varian's shadow drowned the dragon, leaving him cold where he stood a few feet away. "You can 'please' me fine right here. I want to make sure you learn some respect and don't dare smirk at me again. Now, take off your shoes and pants." 

Of all the possible scenarios Wrathion had played out in his head, none of them had come close to that blatant command. "My pants?" He sputtered, all affect gone from his voice. His knees locked and quivered, and he drove his heels into the floor to stay upright. With the blood draining from his head, the short "you're joking" he squeaked felt entirely apart from himself.

By contrast, the king's voice came unhindered. "I'm not."

"I'm not!" The dragon yelped. After forcing air into his lungs, he crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders. He no longer held his neck straight; his goateed chin dipped to his collar and the corners of his lips sagged in disbelief. His eyes—wide and searching—were the only part of him he dared to keep open.

Varian approached. Wrathion's stomach twisted in knots, and the foul taste of porridge haunted the back of his mouth. "What...do you intend to do to me?" He finally pronounced. It took every ounce of polish he had perfected in his short life to keep his voice from cracking. 

"I'm going to punish you like the peasants in Elwynn punish their wayward brats. It's clear from your arrogance no one has ever put you in your place. I'm going to change that. Now, do as I say and drop your pants."

Staring up at the king, Wrathion raised his brow. He wasn't sure if it was anger, indignation, or sorrow that wrapped its cold fingers around his heart, but nonetheless, he felt its chill quiver and spread to every extremity. What did the king know of what he had faced, from Alexstrasza's brood hunting him to the ends of the earth to the way he'd groveled before the ogres to be spared from their gladiator pit? What could a king know of the contempt he'd seen in his champions' faces? 

He wanted to protest, to set the king straight, but while he debated, Varian took a step closer. Now he tapped his bare foot on the floor. Somehow, it managed to thud as loudly as if he had worn a steel toed boot. 

Glancing first at the foot, then up into the man's scarred face, Wrathion muttered in indignation, "I am the Son of Deathwing, not some peasant's boy from your forest."

"All the more reason to make sure you learn respect."

"I won't," Wrathion countered again. Each time he protested, his voice lost a drop or two of its confidence. He scrambled for something to cling to. "I will be treated with decency. Your kind has a code of conduct for prisoners of war, do you not?"

"For mortals," Varian corrected, "None of our laws apply to dragons."

"I'm mortal, too!" Actually, Wrathion wasn't sure, but he was too frantic to parse the complications. "As we've all become after my father's slaying, and I surrendered willingly to your soldiers. I've been nothing but open, and honest, and _helpful_ since you brought me here. Whatever shame you're trying to bring me hasn't been earned, I am certain!"

"What about last night?" Varian thundered. As Wrathion's voice ascended in pitch, the king's rose in volume. "You were more than eager to offer yourself to me, and how many times have you laid hands on my son: my teenage son!"

The sudden mention of Anduin made Wrathion stagger. An image of the young prince surfaced in his mind: cheeks ruddied by the cool mountain wind and lips flushed as he leaned in and silenced the question on the tip of Wrathion's tongue. He had rested a hand against Anduin's shoulder, and Anduin had squeezed his waist. When they had pressed their foreheads together, the rest of the world had ceased to exist. 

But even the power of that memory wasn't enough to temper the king's next blow. "You only care about your dignity when things aren't going your way," he accused, clamping his right hand around the dragon's left shoulder. Wrathion ducked and tried to recoil. Varian dug in deeper. "Otherwise, you drop your pants like a whore."

Wrathion opened his mouth but no sound came out. Varian's face twisted into a snarl.

"Don't even try to deny it." 

Wrathion choked out, "I'm not—" 

"We all know what black dragons are like. What _your kind_ is like." 

"I'm not—" 

With every stuttered objection, Wrathion's breath grew more ragged. It was as if his collar had tempered not only his power but also his conviction. Mouth dry, tongue heavy, every word felt like a challenge. He swallowed. Varian's grip tightened, and Wrathion knew if the king so desired he could tear his arm from his socket. 

"You are, or I'll put you out in the stocks. Do you understand?"

"I—"

"Yes or no?"

The dragon had faced enough opponents to know when he was cornered. He nodded once, then, maintaining eye contact, slowly uncrossed his arms. He lifted his knee and reached his shackled hands to unlatch his boot. The king lessened the pressure on his shoulder but didn't withdraw until Wrathion had discarded his shoes and stood with his bare toes splayed on the floor. 

With that, Varian took a step back and sat on the corner of the bed. Wrathion felt the pierce of his stare as he fumbled to untie his sash. After rattling and clanging his chains, he managed to get it free. It slid down his waist, and his hip guards followed. He toed out of them, then lifted the hem of his shirt to reach the drawstrings beneath. 

His cheeks burned as looked down and carefully asserted, "The shirt stays on."

"Fine," Varian shot back. "But the pants go."

"...All right." His fingers shook as they clutched the silk cords, but, after working a pointed nail into the knot, he loosened, then separate the strands. Forcing down the cold lump in his throat, he gave his waistband a tug, shimmying out of the article to stand with his thin thighs bare and the tails of his white shirt barely covering his small purple shorts. 

He expected some reaction from the king, but Varian said nothing. The only indication that anything had changed was a single flicker Wrathion caught in his eyes: the same hungry look Fahrad had donned unabashedly during their private meetings. The older dragon had always paired it with a licentious grin, but Varian's lips remained in an authoritative line. It made it even harder to determine what he expected from this, or what move he'd make when Wrathion got within striking range. 

He had said fathers and children, however, and Wrathion clung to that, if only to empower him to walk forward. Even so, his chest tightened and writhed. With every step, a new insecurity nagged for attention: from the slenderness of his ankles to the discoloration Rhea's experiments had left on his skin. From the patchy hair he had sprouted below his knees to the way his legs shook. His long toenails clicked and counted down the seconds until he stopped before the king on the bed. He looked first at his face, then down at his open lap, waiting, fighting to breath...

"Bend over my legs," he heard Varian command through the rush of blood in his ears. 

"Like this?" He stepped between the man's knees and started to kneel, but Varian shook his head, grabbed his hips, and shoved him to the side.

"Lay on top of them," the king cut in. A flicker of desperation shot through his words, but Wrathion's head was too fuzzy to apply his usual inquisitiveness to it.

He nodded, his curls tumbling forward. He crawled first over one thigh, and then the other, before reaching his shackled hands down to the floor in hopes of finding something to hold. His chains dragged and weighed him down, but his fingertips failed to find purchase. With an inhale, he closed his eyes, grasping at anything he had heard or seen that might reveal what the king planned to do. 

There was only one thing. A flash of a scene he had spied through a door in the tavern. An orc soldier sprawled in a chair with one of Madame Goya's girls giggling and squirming in his lap, her round ass up, his green hand drawn back. Wrathion had turned away, and then he had heard it:

_Smack._

A jolt of pain shot through his cheek, then a sting that lingered after the crack had faded. He bowed forward, gasping as his hair covered his face and the blood drained from his lips. The king grabbed the back of his collar and dragged him up until the crown of his head met the edge of the mattress. He splayed that hand across the base of his skull.

His fingers threaded into Wrathion's hair. The dragon breathed in, braced himself, just as the king's other arm shifted and struck square in his cheeks.

Again, tingling pain quivered on the dragon's sensitive skin. He bit his lip. The smell of the king's cologne clung to the blue blanket beneath his forehead. The pointed tips of his ears started to burn, but another jolt and throb between his thighs smoldered even hotter. Realizing why he ached sent a wave of shame crashing over the dragon, but it left in its wake a wetness that leaked and spread through his shorts.

The insides of Wrathion's legs quivered. A breath caught in his throat. Again, Varian withdrew, and again he struck. Each blow shook and shattered his resolve. He curled his toes. The fingers on the back of his head tightened their grip. Licking his lips and digging his chin into Varian's thigh wasn't enough the stop a keen from escaping into the mattress. 

"A-ah," Wrathion whimpered. The hand on the back of his neck stilled, then squeezed, and his body went limp.

 _Smack._ "Ah!" He whined again. Adrenaline surged through his veins. Warmth pooled in his lower abdomen. 

_Smack._ _Smack._ _Smack._ With every slap, his pulse quickened. Stretching out his bound arms, he clung to the corner of the bed. His knuckles lightened. His forearms shook, and his shackles rattled. Pursing his lips and closing his eyes, he let need push aside his shame. He squeezed his thighs and rolled his hips, desperate for some contact, any contact, to assuage the tension building between his folds. 

Suddenly, the hand on his neck slid over his collar, down his spine, and into the cleft of his ass. It didn't stop until its fingers met the wet stain spreading from within his underwear. Above him, the king tensed. "What is this?" He hissed, on the heels of what could have been a laugh or a scoff. He templed his fingers, then pressed one against his slit. Wrathion squirmed and buried his face in the bed.

"You really are a whore, aren't you? Look at you. Some punishment this proved to be."

"I'm not—" A sigh cut Wrathion's protest short. The king's finger found the swollen tip of his clit, and when he pressed against it, Wrathion's whole leg shook. Pleasure sparked and spread. His eyes squeezed closed, and nothing else mattered except feeling that pressure again. 

Varian rolled the pad of his thumb over top of it, muttering something that, from its tone, felt inflammatory. Wrathion, however, couldn't make out the words—not with his pulse pounding in his ears. He nodded and shuddered. Varian rubbed again. Through his haze, Wrathion finally made out:

"Is this what you did to woo my son? Bend over and whine for him? He was a good boy until you came along, you know. Were you using him, or are you just insatiable?"

"No, I'm not, your Majesty," he replied, but the moan in his voice rendered him unconvincing. He hated what Varian said. He wanted him to know the truth, to cease shaming him, but he also didn't want him to remove his hand. Biting his lip, then shaking his head, he explained, "Anduin and I never did anything more than just...kiss. And I touched him once under the sheets. It wasn't like—"

Varian squeezed the mound between his legs and dug his fingers into his slit through the fabric. A shudder raced through Wrathion's abdomen. "I don't believe you," the king said, even as Wrathion whimpered.

"Please. We didn't." 

"But you've decided to spread your legs for me."

"I haven't! I'm not—" Wrathion gasped.

Varian cut him off. "You are. Look at you. You're begging me for it. If you aren't, tell me to stop."

Wrathion didn't want him to stop. He knew it. Varian knew it. His quivering thighs and the shock and euphoria stealing his thoughts knew it. His tongue knew it, too, as it refused to form the word that would've put an end to this. Instead, he bowed forward, clutched the bed, and let out another soft moan.

Varian's fingers slid up his shirt, and then curled under the waistband of his underwear. The king tugged the article over his ass and then down his thighs, leaving it to dangle in the crook of his knees. A rush of cool air tickled the inside of Wrathion's legs and teased his wet curls, and then Varian's hand was back on him. A thick, calloused finger dipped between his lips and nudged the underside of his clit.

"Agh," Wrathion gasped. Digging his nails into the bed and spreading his knees, he forgot the king's taunts from a moment before. The pressure on his clit was perfect, sliding up to the tip and then pressing back his hood. His muscles tugged and tightened. Blood rushed to his face. Every flick of Varian's finger drew out a mewling sigh. He fell limp in his lap, letting him touch and spread and slap at his now-bare ass. 

He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of his own arousal, which grew stronger the longer Varian thumbed at his tiny cock.

Above him, the king chuckled. The sound of it vibrated down the thigh beneath Wrathion's face. "So eager," Varian chided, using two fingers to spread his lips. "Where's that smirk of yours now?"

"I—" Wrathion lifted his head an inch or two before another jolt sent him rocking forward. Arguing was useless. He trembled and whimpered without knowing what he was asking for: "Please."

"Please _what_?" Varian pressed. "I want you to say it."

"I don't know, I just—" The words tumbled from Wrathion's lips. "Don't want you to stop what you're doing, please. Please don't."

The dragon couldn't bear the sound of his voice: high and desperate and entirely at the king's mercy. But his body wanted this. It _ached_ for it in ways it had never ached for his own touch. He arched his back and whined. The king laughed. A single thick, calloused finger slid down his clit and then nudged at the opening below.

At first, it didn't yield. Then, with a slight pinch, he was breached. The digit sank in, and discomfort, relief, and need crashed over Wrathion in equal measure. He shuddered from shoulders to knees, almost losing his grip on the bed. Varian curled, then withdrew the finger only to slide it back in. 

For the first time that afternoon, the king's breath hitched, and his voice arose thick with lust, "So fucking tight. How are you so tight?"

Wrathion swallowed, but his throat remained taut. "I've never done this before, as I've told you, I haven't—"

"I saw you sneaking out of Anduin's tent," the king insisted. The finger in Wrathion curled and plunged deeper. Wrathion caught the squeak of his own juices around the digit, the tips of his ears turning red.

He went on, "You can't lie to me."

"We kissed. We touched. We never, ah—" Again, Varian thrust. When he withdrew, he returned with something thicker and more uneven. Shoving it in made Wrathion cry out and scratch at the bedding. It was too much, too tight. It stretched him to what felt like the limit. He squeezed closed his eyes; wetness prickled beneath his lashes. 

"Ah! That's! Is that two?" Wrathion panted.

"Yes," Varian replied.

"It's too much."

This earned another chuckle. The king twisted his fingers slightly, then plunged. Wrathion shuddered when the second knuckle popped in. It hurt, but his clit throbbed. Deep inside, a muscle tingled and tightened. 

He threw himself over Varian's thigh and whined, "please."

"Please what?" The king's hand stilled.

"I don't know," Wrathion admitted. Spreading his legs and willing himself to relax, he continued, quiet, but earnest, "Don't stop."

"Mh, my little dragon whore."

It should have made him push back, he knew, but instead, he nodded. He couldn't stop his body from assenting. After a few more thrusts, Wrathion adjusted. When the king sank in, his only thought was to the nerves inside him sparking to life. He started to notice other things, too. The bulge that had, at first, been soft against his abdomen grew harder and larger. It jerked and prodded him when he rocked back onto Varian's hand, and when he breathed in, he caught a musk thicker than his own scent in the crook of the king's leg. 

Varian spread his fingers. Wrathion trembled. The next thing he knew, the pad of Varian's thumb nudged against his back opening, forcing its way through the tight ring of muscle. The dragon's red eyes flew open; he tried to lift his head, but the king grabbed the back of his neck and held him in place.

"Shh," he chided. "Be good. You can take it."

"It's—ah—" The knuckle popped in. Wrathion had never felt so exposed. It bent to rub the wall inside of him. His shoulder blades drew together. His breath faltered, but after a few inhales he admitted, "It feels strange."

"Shh, be good. You're doing so well."

The compliment was so unexpected it tore away any shred of hesitation or defiance that remained in the dragon. Blushing and closing his eyes, he settled into the feeling. Varian's fingers stretched him, working together. They plunged in and out and rubbed the thin wall that separated them. With another shudder, the dragon curled back, then rocked forward. The tent in Varian's pants dragged along his belly. Above him, the king groaned. 

Like the dizzying praise he'd received a moment before, the pleased rumble made Wrathion's chest tighten. He smiled. His cheeks warmed, and, even with his head bowed and his lower body exposed, a surge of confidence shot through him. 

The next time the dragon swayed, he leaned down to increase the pressure on Varian's cock. The king's fingers clenched and curled inside him. Then, in a single gesture, Varian yanked out his hand and grabbed, instead, at the crook of Wrathion's left hip.

He didn't have time to gasp or ask questions before the king dragged him off his lap and threw him onto the bed. Behind him, the mattress caved. He pushed up on his elbows, but Varian shoved him down. He tried to glance back, but he couldn't see past the king's massive chest, still clothed in a light linen tunic, now surrounding him. 

Varian grunted against his ear. His long, brown hair spilled over Wrathion's shoulders, and his left hand dug into the bed beside Wrathion's head. Then, the dragon felt it: something heavy and thicker than he'd imagined pressing into his slit, parting his lips, and nudging, insistent, at his opening. 

His body didn't yield. It couldn't—not to something so large. The king's cock slipped and dragged along the underside of his clit. Digging his toes into the bed to still his quivering, Wrathion moaned a plea that got lost into the blue silk blanket pressed against his mouth. 

It soon became clear that, despite Wrathion's reaction, Varian had no intention of rubbing him with his shaft again. He growled and shifted his weight. His two fingers plunged into Wrathion's hole, spreading, then withdrawing. His hand returned, wet, to clutch the dragon's side, and then his cock shoved against him, forcing him to stretch around it. 

The dragon cried. His spine arched, then went rigid. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. Tears resurfaced, prickling at the corners of his eyes, but with his wrists bound, he couldn't wipe them away. Dragging his forehead along the mattress, he willed himself to focus on anything but the pain. It wasn't the worst he'd felt in his life—not even close! He could do this, he argued in silence. 

After a few shaky inhales, he rolled his shoulders. His mind settled on the sounds leaving Varian's mouth: a hitched breath, a grunt, and a snarl snapped against the shell of Wrathion's ear. The king jostled his hips and used two fingers to spread his folds. He shoved and jammed the head of his cock against the dragon until, with a pop, it sank in. Wrathion clenched. Varian sighed unabashedly. 

With the thickest part through, Varian claimed a few inches, at least. Wrathion felt every one of them, probing and dragging along his walls, stretching him further than he could fathom. Again, something tightened beneath his clit, but his whole body ached, burning from being wrenched open. Adrenaline flooded through his veins. The king bit his shoulder, but he barely processed the sting.

His mind was instead consumed by the length and thickness of Varian's cock as it slid back, then thrust in, then shoved deeper, seemingly into the pit of his stomach itself. From the way the king snarled against his hair, however, Wrathion realized it wasn't enough. 

"Relax," Varian hissed. No longer did he sound like a king issuing orders, but like an animal, barely restrained. A shiver crawled up Wrathion's back, but it never reached his neck. Varian squashed it by bearing his weight down upon him.

The blankets around Wrathion's face made it difficult to breathe, let alone speak, but he finally gasped out, "It's too much."

"No, it isn't. You can do it."

"I—" A whimper stole the words from Wrathion's lips. Tilting his head, he sucked down a gasp of air. His reprieve lasted barely a second before Varian tangled his fingers in his hair and forced his face back on the bed.

The king's hand then abandoned his curls to slide, instead, beneath his collar. He squeezed. Something ignited in the back of Wrathion's brain, and then the dragon fell slack, his limbs and chest melting into the bed. Warmth spread through him, and his heart, which had raced in his ear moments before, settled into an even rhythm. 

Through the sudden burst of acquiescence, Wrathion couldn't process his body's instinctual reaction. Varian, however, must have sensed it, for he tightened his grip and chuckled as he rocked forward. "Good," he murmured through a groan. His hips pressed against the dragon's backside, and his cock delved in.

Wrathion moaned. Pain gave way to a sense of rightness and contentment that pooled deep between his legs. It spread through his abdomen and tingled on the tip of his clit. Varian thrust. He sighed wantonly, and then the fingers that had been on his neck slid along his cheek and pressed, insistent, against his parted lips. He accepted them, flushing as he tasted his own juices still clinging to them.

Between his legs, those same juices leaked, wetting the insides of his thighs. He smelled their musk and heard the soft squelch they made when Varian rocked into him: evidence of the pleasure gripping him from within. 

As the king found a rhythm with his thrusts, he pressed his fingers further into Wrathion's mouth: along his tongue and towards the back of his throat. Wrathion accepted them, sucking until spittle dribbled down his chin and onto the bed. Varian grunted. His hips slammed against Wrathion's ass. He fucked him deeper into the mattress, his moans and praises growing more incoherent against the shell of Wrathion's ear. 

Wrathion tilted his head to the side. The king bit the curve of his neck. His body tensed, his feet curled, his back arched as the whole world drew to a point inside of him. The heat that had built beneath his clit tugged, then unfurled, and he cried. He cried with Varian's fingers still in his mouth and the king's breath hot in his hair. 

And then, as if liquefied, his quivering legs fell open. Varian gasped, then pounded once, then again into his warmth. He rolled back, nearly sliding out, but then his cock twitched, and his release spattered all over Wrathion's slit from his hole to his now too-sensitive clit. It clung to his curls and dripped down the insides of his legs, joining the wet spot he'd already made on the blanket.

Wrathion made no move to get out of the puddle. He slumped forward, bound arms outstretched and head heavy on the bed, succumbing, for a moment, to his euphoric haze. 

Then, the mattress shifted. Varian rose and stepped down. His feet padded across the floor, his clothing rustled, and the door behind Wrathion squeaked on its hinges. Being alone brought the dragon to his senses. Rolling to the side, he looked down at his bare lower half: the pearly white cum clinging to his hair and a few streaks of red along his inner thigh. 

His cheeks burned. He pressed his legs closed. Just then, Varian returned with a basin and cloth. 

"Here," the king muttered, approaching the bed. He set the basin on his nightstand, then wet a corner of the towel and dug his knee into the edge of the mattress. Wrathion opened his mouth to question him, but before he could make a sound he felt the kiss of cool wetness against his flushed skin. Varian wiped the blood from his thigh, then cleaned the mess he'd left on his sex. 

He stared off to Wrathion's right, and Wrathion followed his example, focusing on a lamp at the far edge of the curtained chamber, noting how it flickered and danced in the shadows. 

When he was clean, Varian set aside the cloth. He lifted Wrathion's wrists and unhooked the chains that linked them together. With the change in weight came a sense of relief and a burst of energy that spread from Wrathion's hands to his shoulders. He crawled forward and rested his head against one of Varian's many pillows. The king watched for a moment in silence, then removed his leg from the bed, picking up the basin, and walking out of the room.

Wrathion heard voices in the entryway and strained to make out their whispers. For a moment, he worried—and expected—he'd be dragged from the bed and hauled back to his cell, half undressed, with his knees still quivering. However, after a moment he identified a word or two that made sense: meat, two plates, wine. 

_I'll keep him here. Yes, I know what I'm doing. It's fine._

Wrathion's heart clenched. His breath hitched, then settled, as he curled his arms around Varian's pillow and closed his eyes. After a time, the king returned and placed a tray on the table beside him. When he inhaled, he could almost taste the smell of meat on his tongue. Carefully, he eased himself up. Varian sat by and watched. The two said nothing, but after taking a sip of Dalaran Red and chewing a bite of steak, the dragon couldn't stop himself from smiling.


End file.
